(translated by the author from the original portuguese tale, “Cristo crucificado”)
You, who walked through this world of men when men where little more than beastly beasts; you, who came from afar, from where even the light takes time to travel; you, who have been in the enlightened realm, the home of lasting peace, and even then decided to return… For us!
You, who have been watching the foundation of the first tribe, and also of the first civilization. You, who have been a friend of men for so many ages. You, who have been taking care of our fire, so that it doesn’t be extinguished by the cold winds of the obscure nights. You: our friend, and a friend of the sun. You are that which is most precious in our existence and, even then, you are just one of us…
Not God, but just one more from the race of gods. Not God, but just one more from the race of men. Not God, but just a being who came from somewhere in infinity, and now fly besides the angels of heaven.
We hunted you when we saw you in the sky. We harpooned you down, to the same level of thought, to our fetid marsh of rampant desires. We cut your wings and made you scream in agony, and what did you showed us? The other face!
Nevertheless, you were born man again, you grown again as a man, you lived the life of a man. You ran among the world’s sheep as a young shepherd that some lunatic saw among the hills by the afternoon’s ending. You kneeled in front of the great sages of the Orient and told them: “teach me”, but they answered: “no, you teach us, messenger!”
Not a prophet, but just someone who saw this sphere spin for so many ages. Not a messiah, but just someone who now goes anywhere he wants along the Cosmos. Not a magician, but just someone who makes us recall love. Not a witchdoctor, but just someone who makes us find the health of our own souls once again. In the end: not a King, but an Emperor of the spirit.
Nevertheless, we spitted into your message of light. We lashed you and told you to be gone from here. And to make sure that you were wrong in your vain hope for an age of love, we let your own people, your beloved people, choose between you, oh bleeding lamb, and Barabbas, that dirty murderer, inciter of rebellions and killings. And they didn’t choose you, they let you bleed until the end…
We, the emperors of earth, the conquerors of realms, the Coliseum’s mob, we crucified you and banished you from our lives. At your left we left a thief, at your right another one, and we only let in some women to give you farewell because we all knew how much you cried in that cross. You still had the boldness to ask the Cosmos for forgiveness, saying that we didn’t knew what we were doing. But we all knew; we knew exactly what was being done on that day!
But that was only the beginning of our revenge. Later, we raised a glorious Church of the Chosen upon the dismembered bodies of each of your beloved disciples. They preached your message saying that the Realm of God covered every place, among broken branches and bellow small rocks along the roads… And we told them that no: “All roads lead to Rome, and only the Church of Rome could save them from eternal damnation!”
You came to tell us that the existence is a party made by the Cosmos, and that everything that we needed to quest for was love. But we said to you that every being is born a sinner, that some obscure ancestor had bitten some rotten apple at some fabulous grove, and that because of it we crucified you: so that you could pay for the shadowy sin of all of us, of all mankind!
And there was a day when our Church controlled the thoughts of one half of all men. We, that crucified you and clapped when you were bleeding, drop by drop, we made your moment of supreme agony, your Calvary, our greatest image of glory. At the entrance of each one of our Golden Temples, raised among the poverty and miserability of men, we showed the Christ Crucified in all of its greatness…
Nevertheless, you still lie crucified to this day, and to this day they still forget you and cry out among the mob: “Save Barabbas!”
So I ask you, my friend: when you will finally come out of that cross? When there will finally be established a realm of life, and no more of death, into this land? When you will finally resurrect from the dead, as to bring back all of those disciples of long ago, and all of your friends who have been loving you in the night prayers, and saving your teachings in hidden brush strokes and vessels buried at the deserts?
When you will take away the three hideous spikes from this colossal cross, and will come comfort us again? Or maybe it’s us who will need to climb into your cross, to free you, and bring you definitely to our heart?
There is still light down here, there is still light everywhere… You conquered the night of every soul… Only you, oh invincible one!
received by raph at 2011.
Image credits: J. H. Williams III (Promethea, comics by Alan Moore)